Heaven's Door

by Michael Knaggs

  “It’s possible, of course,” said Eleanor, “that if there had been a fight, they might have been injured, bleeding perhaps. That could have been a factor.”

  “Has anyone been able to get out there to see?” asked Tom, looking round the table.

  “Yes, I have.” Donald McClure, the Head of Grampian Police, spoke for the first time. He was a tall man in his early fifties, slim and athletic-looking, with bright eyes and slightly receding grey hair. “We took a chopper out there Monday early pm. Just about made it there and back. Couldn’t get too close, but close enough. Not pretty. Bad start.”

  “It was after Donny returned and confirmed the incident that I informed the MDJ,” said Gordon. “Immediately after,” he added.

  “Plans for getting them down?” Tom looked round the group again.

  “Not decided yet, Home Secretary,” said Eleanor, formal and clipped. “This falls outside any ‘what-ifs’ in the NJR handbook.”

  “Quite,” said Tom. He paused. “Look,” he said, “as Donny says, this is a bad start. This will undoubtedly activate a lot of critics of the NJR,” he turned to Eleanor, who pointedly returned his look, “but we are charged, through the wonder of democracy, to carry out the wishes of the populace. And taking accountability for dealing with these situations, irrespective of our personal views, is what we are paid a lot of money to do.”

  He continued to look at Eleanor who finally nodded briefly and looked away, more in surrender, he thought, than agreement.

  “I do think Eleanor is right, though,” he continued. “It seems appropriate to deal with this prior to addressing the rest of the agenda. Almost unthinkable that we don’t, in fact.”

  The others nodded as Tom got to his feet.

  “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a couple of calls. I’m sure you understand.”

  He rose and left the room before anyone had time to speak or move.

  *

  “Hi, Tom. Everything okay?”

  “No, everything is most definitely not okay! Who informed you about the Alpha incident? I take it you have been informed.”

  There was a brief pause as Jonathan Latiffe, Minister of Justice and Tom’s most senior direct report, got over his surprise at the question.

  “Yes, of course. The MDJ informed me. Why?”

  “And when was that?”

  “Tuesday morning, really early. Around seven, seven-fifteen.”

  There was silence for a few moments.

  “Home Secretary,” Jonathan went on, “is anything wrong? Ms Goody said you had a meeting and would I attend at Downing Street. Should I have got in touch to check?”

  “Of course not,” said Tom. “That was absolutely right, I did have a meeting. It’s just that it was one that could have been postponed. There’s just been a cock-up. You won’t believe this, but I’ve only just been made aware of the incident. Two bloody days after it happened! Not your fault, Jonno, but I should have been informed first. Even before the MDJ. And I certainly should have been at that meeting.”

  “I’m really sorry, sir.”

  “I’m not sir, I’m still Tom, and you don’t have anything to be sorry about. As I say, it’s just a cock-up, and it certainly won’t happen again. I can promise that! I suppose everybody assumed somebody else would tell me. I guess we need to put out a full press statement and get someone in front of the cameras. That probably will be you, and the sooner …”

  Jonathan interrupted, with a voice full of apprehension.

  “That’s already been taken care of, Tom.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Tom exploded. “Well, it doesn’t go out until I’ve okayed it! Is that clear enough?”

  “What I mean is it’s already out there. It was communicated in the House yesterday afternoon, and I gave a press conference immediately afterwards. I assumed you would have seen it. In fact, when Jenny told me it was you just now, I thought that’s what you were phoning about, you know, with some feedback. And, of course, it’s front page in the nationals today.”

  *

  Mags and Cheryl were enjoying a Full Scottish Breakfast. They had occupied the bar until the early hours, along with John Bramham and Simon, and a group of eight Munro-baggers, seven of whom were male. They were on their way to South Ballachulish from where they planned on tackling the two separate 1,000-metre peaks of Scorr Dhumuill and Scorr Dhearg the following day.

  The girls chatted about what had been an exceptionally pleasant evening, during which they were subjected to a barrage of comments, which became more personal and flattering as the evening unfolded. Only Simon, along with Rachel, the eighth member of the climbing contingent, failed to whole-heartedly enter into the high spirits, both annoyed and dismayed at their respective competition. However, they had later made amends for this initial disappointment in Rachel’s room, where they shared first their grievances and then the king-size bed.

  The climbing party, minus Rachel, were occupying a table for breakfast at the end of the dining room farthest away from Mags and Cheryl. They were being typically hung-over-noisy and were clearly discussing their previous evening’s company. Their conversation was frequently punctuated by bawdy laughter, followed immediately by all seven turning towards them and waving cheekily.

  “God,” said Cheryl, “I don’t know about ‘if looks could kill’. If looks could strip, we’d both be sitting here in just our trainers.”

  Mags laughed.

  “Yes,” she said. “Not sure about those two Munros. If you asked them right now which twin peaks they’d prefer, I reckon it would be mine or yours.”

  Cheryl almost choked on the piece of toast she was eating.

  “Mrs Tomlinson-Brown!” she scolded, laughing through a fit of coughing. “Are you allowed to say things like that?”

  “Only when they’re true.”

  They both laughed again, and looked across at the party, who returned their attention with a collective expression of puzzlement, clearly wondering why the joke was suddenly on them.

  From where she was sitting, Mags saw Simon and Rachel appear and stop briefly just outside the entrance to the dining room. They exchanged a brief kiss, which quickly developed into a more passionate embrace. Then another brief kiss and Rachel entered the room to raucous cheers and applause from her companions.

  “Overslept,” she announced, her head bowed in a failed attempt to hide the deep blush on her cheeks.

  Attention was deflected from her as Simon entered a few moments later, looking suitably flustered and apologetic. He looked around the room searching for Mags and Cheryl. He blushed as well, the colouration looking completely out of place on the rugged features above his muscular frame.

  He walked across to the girls’ table.

  “Morning, ladies. Sorry I’m …”

  “No apology required, Simon,” said Mags. “Did you sleep well?” Her eyes were wide and innocent. Cheryl failed to turn her snigger into a sneeze.

  “Not bad,” he said, smiling in surrender. “Bed was a bit lumpy.”

  The girls laughed and Mags waved him to sit down as the climbing party rose to take their leave with loud goodbyes. Rachel smiled across at Simon and blew him a kiss, to his heightened embarrassment.

  “She’s a nice girl,” said Mags. “Will you see her again?”

  “Probably not,” he replied. “But I hope so.”

  “We didn’t score, by the way,” said Mags.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, with an air of officialdom. “That’s why I’m here; to make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen.”

  They all laughed.

  Mags turned to catch the waiter’s attention. He was over by the window clearing plates from the table of an elderly man who was reading the morning paper. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the two-inch-high headlines on the front page.

  *

  “I’d like to go out to Alpha this afternoon.”

  They turned in their seats to face him, laptops were closed and mob
iles put away. There was a shuffling, an exchange of anxious glances and a few brave headshakes, but no-one spoke.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Tom.

  “To what end?” asked Gordon. “What could that possibly achieve?”

  “No ‘end’, Gordon. Just because I want to,” returned Tom. “Look, I put that bloody great thing out there, and I put those people on it. And I am here at Lochshore, an hour away from it. I would just like to be in a position – given those circumstances – to provide the prime minister with a first hand report. I think he’d expect that, don’t you? And he’s entitled to expect it.”

  Gordon shook his head.

  “We’d need to get clearance …”

  “You’ve got it!” snapped Tom. “From the Home Secretary.”

  “Home Secretary, with respect, you’re not the one …” Eleanor picked up the head-shaking habit.

  “If you really want to show respect,” interrupted Tom, his voice now threateningly calm, “you’ll pick that up,” he nodded to the phone in the centre of the table, “and instruct someone to start getting a helicopter ready.” He looked at his watch. “We take off in one hour.”

  He stood in preparation to leave the room; the others rose quickly to their feet.

  “Donny,” he turned to the senior policeman. “I’d like you to come with me. Oh, and incidentally,” he looked at the faces around the table, “I can fly a helicopter; so if it just so happens that there aren’t any pilots available … that won’t be a problem!”

  He turned and left the room, heading back to his office. This time Matty, who had been sitting quietly in the room with James away from the meeting table, followed him out.

  “Are you okay, Home Secretary? Can I get you a coffee – or something stronger, perhaps?”

  Tom relaxed a little and smiled at him.

  “I’m not ready to drown my sorrows yet, Matty, especially if I’ve got to drive that bloody chopper.”

  Matty frowned.

  “Yes, I see what you …”

  “It was a joke, Matty. You don’t really think they’d let me loose with one of those, do you?”

  Tom looked at the dejected expression on his young colleague’s face.

  “I guess I was a bit rough on them in there,” he said. “Do you think? No-one here’s done anything wrong – it may turn out that no-one anywhere’s at fault. Just an accident of timing or something.” He paused. “I will have that coffee, please. Get yourself one as well and bring them both in here. Thanks, Matty.”

  The young man left the room looking a bit brighter. Gordon had been waiting outside the door and entered as Matty left.

  “Leaving in fifty minutes,” he said, stiffly, and turned to leave.

  “Thanks, Gordon,” said Tom. “Look, I’m sorry this hasn’t worked out, but cut me a bit of slack today, will you? I’m just feeling a little bit like a victim at the moment. And when you get the opportunity, will you tell that smug bitch to wipe the smirk off her face, or I might end two really promising careers – hers and mine – by doing it for her.”

  Gordon chuckled.

  “Okay to both those requests,” he said. “Incidentally, we’re all coming for the ride, except James and your guy – Matty, is it? Not enough room for them. Is that alright?”

  “Fine. Make sure Eleanor gets the seat nearest the door in case there’s an emergency and we have to jettison something quickly.”

  Gordon chuckled again.

  “Will do. Oh, and bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve got a pilot; so you’ll have to sit in the back with the rest of us.”

  *

  Mags made an excuse and left quickly to pick up a copy of the paper from the reception desk, then shortly afterwards made her way back to the dining room. John Bramham, Cheryl and Simon were waiting for her. John was wearing a sea captain’s cap; the other two were smiling.

  “Your transport awaits, ma’am,” said John. “Just a brief walk. Please follow me.”

  Mags, who was expecting a ride into Oban, looked enquiringly at Cheryl, who tilted her head to one side and opened her eyes wide in a ‘wait-and-see’ expression. They followed John, single-file, down a narrow path from the hotel to a sheltered anchorage and a gleaming cabin cruiser. The Wave Nymph was a luxurious sixty-footer, fitted out with every conceivable gadget and appliance, and featuring a heated observation deck with leather seats and a fully stocked cocktail cabinet.

  “Best I could do,” said John. “Off-season and all that.”

  “Brilliant!” said Mags.

  *

  The EC135 lifted off from the Lochshore helipad at 11.30 am and headed north-west towards the Sound of Mull. The pilot and his seven passengers filled the police helicopter to capacity and Tom could not help contrasting this with yesterday’s luxurious accommodation in the Bell 430. On the other hand, he thought, it seemed appropriate to experience some discomfort to accompany the trepidation they all felt at the prospect of what awaited them at their destination.

  As they cleared the island of Kerrera and headed across the Firth of Lorne, Tom, on the right hand side of the aircraft, looked across at Eriska and wondered what Mags was doing and – much more importantly – how she was feeling right now. He noticed a cabin cruiser making its way round the southern tip of Lismore, heading towards Mull. A small charter, he guessed, taking a group of early tourists for a quiet day’s trip. How he wished he was down there with them.

  *

  Looking up from the cruiser, one of the passengers was wondering if the police helicopter had anything to do with the ‘HORROR ON ALPHA’ described on the front page of the Daily Record. She watched it recede from view ahead of them along the Sound.

  “Craignure ahoy!” someone shouted, pointing ahead to port. “Change here for Torosay Castle!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “The distance from Lochshore to Alpha is one hundred and seventy miles,” the pilot announced as the EC135 headed out across The Minch. “Our optimum cruising speed is one-fifty-five but with this wind speed and direction, we’ll be averaging no more than about one-thirty. Total estimated journey time eighty minutes; our ETA, then, about sixty from now.”

  As they reached the open sea and gradually left behind the islands of Coll and Rum to their left and right, respectively, the conversation flagged and the group became silent for a long time. At their cruising altitude of 6,000 feet, Tom estimated that their horizon was over 150 miles away, but the visibility was such that they could only see for a few miles.

  The flight was relatively smooth, but as Tom looked around at his travelling companions, he couldn’t help wondering about the wisdom of such a senior group all travelling together in these circumstances, straight out over the Atlantic. There would be quite a flurry of bi-elections if this went down.

  “There she is.” Gordon broke the silence and the others leaned forward in their seats to peer ahead. But he was pointing over to the right at the far western outpost of the British Isles. He turned to Tom.

  “Just how did you manage to persuade the National Trust of Scotland to let you use that? I would have thought they’d be dead against it.”

  “Well, we weren’t initially planning an off-shore hotel,” said Tom. “In fact, we were looking at putting the Exiles on Hirta. That really was a non-starter – double status World Heritage Site and all that. But the MOD already has it on a long-term lease for the missile tracking. That’s been discontinued now, of course, and there was talk of removing the military altogether. So it sort of suited the Trust our using it as a base for supplies and services. It means a presence all year on the islands, utilities provided and maintained free of charge; and all the power they need – again free – from the wind farm. Most of the new storage is underground, anyway, so the only blot on the landscape is the same blot, the existing MOD buildings.”

  “So, everybody wins?” said Allan.

  “Not everybody,” Eleanor was pointing ahead.

  “There she is,” said the pilot, swinging the helicopt
er to the right and then left so that all the passengers could have the first sight of their destination still twenty or so miles away. “Hotel St Kilda!”

  The spectacle drew gasps from all on board, and a quiet but distinct whimper from Eleanor. Tom felt his stomach churning.

  “Officially called ‘Life Exile Detention Centre Alpha’,” the pilot went on, like a tour guide. “Referred to in writing as LEDCA, and verbally simply as Platform Alpha.”

  Tom remembered how the national dailies had had a field day, each coming up with their own name for it. Paradise City, Sea View Guest House, the Lost World of Atlantic, Fort Deverall, House of the Setting Sun and others, before they had collectively adopted it as Hotel St Kilda.

  “I still can’t believe how you managed to pull it off,” said Allan. “I mean, how you managed to get the platform without any money to buy it with.”

  Tom smiled as he thought back to his trip to Düsseldorf with Grace and Reggie Greyburn, the Shadow Chancellor at the time; their meeting with the board members of Pet Euroleum, majority owners of the platform, and the incredible deal they had pulled off, exploiting the desperation of the multinational to offload their assets during the oil shortage crisis. And what a leap of faith it had been for both parties; for the oil company, anxious enough to do business with an Opposition Party months away from an election, although long odds-on favourites to win it; and for the Party itself, committing the new government – albeit their government – to enormous expenditure within days of their gaining office.

  Tom thought also about his relationship with Grace at the time of the meeting. How secretly excited they had both been at the prospect of the brief time away together; and how Reggie had decided to turn in early the night before the meeting leaving him and Grace together in the bar with time to themselves and anything possible. In the end nothing much had happened; some ‘accidental’ brushing together of legs under the table accompanied by exaggerated apologies and mischievous laughter; Tom escorting Grace to her room at some time after 1.00 am; Grace opening her door with the cardkey and turning to face him; their standing toe-to-toe, with the open doorway behind her, both wondering what to do next, like school kids on a first date. Why hadn’t he just pushed her into her room and done what they had both wanted? Instead he had placed his hands on her shoulders and reached forward as if to kiss her on the cheek, stopping a few inches from her face. Grace had turned her head slightly so their lips had met. No more than a brushing together, minimal contact, but by far the most significant moment in their relationship up to that point.